Disclaimer: I don't own Batman.
Damian Wayne was a very privileged child. He was born into the House of Al Ghul, and afforded every luxury imaginable. The healthiest food, the most intense training, the best possible education, and the destiny of ruling the world.
But recently, the child had given up that life. The path he chose was one of virtue. He chose to become Robin, to fight at Batman's side, and one day to become Batman.
Unfortunately, being "privileged" is just another way of saying "spoiled." And that's what Damian was; a spoiled brat. He thought he was entitled to everything. He thought he could do whatever he wanted. Such was the case one day as he was riding his motorcycle through Gotham City, and was pulled over by the police.
"Kid, how old are you?" asked the cop.
"Ten," Damian answered.
"You're under arrest."
"What?" yelled Damian as he was hauled off of his motorcycle and handcuffed. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I can't believe you don't know this, kid, but it's against the law for ten-year-olds to ride motorcycles. I'm taking you downtown. We'll sort this out at the station."
"You can't arrest me! Don't you know who my father is?" Damian protested as he was shoved by his head into the back of the squad car.
"Don't really care, kid."
"My father is Bruce Wayne!" said Damian.
"Oh, good for you. You're still not allowed to ride a motorcycle," the cop teased. Damian only grew more agitated.
"Let me out of here immediately!" Damian demanded. "Do it before I break out of here myself!"
"Kid, I'm going to have to ask you to be quiet," said the cop.
"Or you'll WHAT?" growled the child.
"Or I'll be forced to restrain you by any means necessary!" said the cop, looking at Damian through the rear-view mirror.
"The second you let me out of this car I'm kicking your ass!"
"Riding a motorcycle without a license and being underage…AND threatening a police officer. Son, I think Mr. Bruce Wayne is going to have a lot to discuss with you today."
"Shut up! You have no idea what I'm capable of!" Damian yelled again, squirming enough to thrust both his feet up at the cage separating the front and back seats. "LET ME GO!"
"Kid, don't make me tase your ass!" warned the cop.
"How're you going to tase me from the front seat while you're driving?" Damian taunted.
"How are YOU going to get out of this car with your hands behind your back?" the cop taunted right back. "Relax, kid. We're almost there. You'll be safe and sound in a big empty cell all by yourself in no time."
"Fuck you," muttered Damian.
"And swearing at a police officer. My, you're just a model citizen today, aren't you?" said the cop. Damian was too exhausted to argue any more. He knew that even when he wasn't dressed as Robin, he was still a "good guy." And fighting with a police officer wasn't really helping him in that department.
When the arrived at the station, Damian went quietly, mainly because he was sick of his every word being thrown back at him with some sarcastic, patronizing comment.
"What have you got there, Mike?" asked the cop behind the front desk.
"Foul-mouthed little kid, riding a motorcycle," said the cop. "Apparently he thinks that being the son of Bruce Wayne makes you immune to the law. OK, in you go, champ. I'll hold onto your phone until we sort this all out." Damian was un-cuffed and shoved into a cell.
"What's the number for Wayne Enterprises?" asked the cop, Mike.
"He's not there," said Damian. "You won't be able to reach him."
"I think I'll just see about that for myself," said Mike, looking up the number and dialing it.
"Wayne Enterprises, how my I direct your call?" asked Lucius Fox, who answered the phone.
"Hello, this is the GCPD, I'm trying to reach Mr. Wayne," said Mike.
"I'm afraid Mr. Wayne isn't available, sir. Can I take a message?"
"Yeah, his ten-year-old son is in jail. Got caught riding a motorcycle." Lucius chuckled at that.
"Yes, Mr. Wayne's son is not easily controlled, I'm afraid. I'll inform his father right away."
"Thank you, sir," said Mike, and he hung up the phone.
"Don't I get one phone call?" demanded Damian, gripping the bars of the cell.
"Sure, kid. Why don't you call mommy?" teased Mike, tossing Damian the cell phone he had confiscated from him.
"For your information, my mother disowned me. I wouldn't call her if she was the last person on earth!" said Damian.
"So who're you going to call? Your parole officer?"
"I can call one of my brothers!" Damian retorted. Now what? I can't call Grayson…he doesn't even live in this city anymore.. I can't call Drake…he'd just laugh at me and gloat. But I can't call Father…I don't even know where he is or what he's doing. Damn it!
"Thought you were calling one of your brothers," teased the cop.
"Shut up!" Sighing, Damian relented and dialed Tim Drake.
"Damian, what's up?" asked Tim.
"Um, Drake, I…" Damian was pretty embarrassed. "I'm in trouble." Tim groaned.
"Who did you kill this time?"
"I didn't kill anyone!" Damian replied, probably a little louder than he meant to, as every officer in the station turned their heads and looked at him. "I'm in jail."
"WHAT?" cried Tim. "What the hell did you do?"
"I got caught riding my motorcycle…" mumbled the young Robin. "You know…out-of-costume," he added softly.
"Why would you do that?" asked Tim, getting up from his desk and walking to his car.
"Well, I've never gotten in trouble for it before," said Damian. Fear was starting to creep into his voice now.
"Were you at least wearing a helmet?"
"Man, you're dumb," said Tim. "Alright, hang on. I'm coming to get you."
"Thanks, Drake," said Damian. He ended his call and then turned to the officer who had arrested him. "My brother's coming to get me."
"That's nice of him," said Mike. "Will he be riding a motorcycle, too?" Damian frowned.
"NO!" he answered, even though he didn't actually know. He knew Tim could operate a motorcycle, and often did while in the field, but he didn't know if Tim ever rode his bike out-of-costume.
After about 20 minutes, Tim finally showed up at the station. He was wearing jeans, a green polo shirt, a leather jacket and sunglasses, which he took off and tucked in his coat pocket upon walking in.
"Hey, I'm Tim Drake-Wayne. Here to pick up Damian," he said.
"Ah, yes. I'll need you to sign this here," said the officer at the desk, handing Tim a clipboard with a form on it. Tim quickly completed it and handed it back.
"Alright, buddy, you're free to go," said Mike, unlocking the cell. Damian scuttled out and hurried over to Tim, who, surprisingly, knelt down and hugged him.
"You OK?" he asked. Damian nodded. "Let's go."
"How long have you been waiting?" asked Tim as Damian buckled his seatbelt in Tim's car.
"Like, half an hour," he shrugged.
"Yeah, sorry. I would've gotten here sooner, but I got stuck in traffic," said Tim. "So what happened?"
"Like I said, I got pulled over for riding my bike."
"Oh yeah, where is it, by the way?"
"It was impounded. We'll probably have to ask Father to pay the fine to get it out."
Tim snorted. "I'm sorry, Damian. This is just the funniest thing I've ever heard. What the hell made you think you could get away with this? How many ten-year-olds do you see riding motorcycles?"
"I forgot, OK?" snapped Damian.
"Forgot what? Forgot that kids aren't allowed to drive ANYTHING until they're at least fifteen? I- ah- it's like…HOW could you not know this?" Tim stuttered.
"Drake…" Damian said, his voice cracking. "I don't…" he stopped and sniffed, trying to compose himself. "I don't really know that much about the real world. Mother let me do pretty much whatever I wanted. I'm not used to, like, rules and stuff."
"Aw, it's OK," said Tim, rubbing his little brother's shoulder. "I forget sometimes. I'm sorry."
"Is Father going to be really mad?" asked Damian, wiping his eyes.
"Probably not that mad," said Tim. "He'll probably understand that you just didn't think. It's not the first time you've screwed up because you were impulsive, right?"
"No," said Damian. "But I was stupid."
"You made a mistake," said Tim. "We all do. You know, one time, I came home after being Robin, and I didn't even change out of my costume before I fell asleep. That could have blown my whole career as Robin right then and there."
"At least you would have BEEN in costume," muttered Damian. "When I look like this," he gestured to his appearance. "I feel like nobody takes me seriously." Tim glanced down at Damian's outfit; it wasn't particularly childish-looking, it was just jeans, red and white Converse, an orange shirt and a black jacket with yellow stripes going down the sleeves.
"That's a good thing," said Tim. "That means that no one would ever suspect that you're Robin. If they look at you in your civilian clothes, and just assume you're a regular kid, then your secret identity is that much safer."
"I don't really like being a regular kid," Damian admitted. "I wish I could be Robin all the time."
"That's no fun," said Tim. "You'd miss out on all the milestones of childhood."
"Tt. Like what?"
"I don't know," said Tim. "Learning to ride a bike…"
"I already know how to ride a damn bike, Drake. Not to mention I can already drive a car, operate a motorcycle and fly a jet if I wanted to."
"OK, bad example," said Tim. "Do you go to school or not? I can't remember…"
"Of course not! Can you picture me in an elementary school classroom? Surrounded by ignorant whelps who don't know the difference between an adjective and a verb?" Damian answered.
"It does make for an amusing visual," said Tim. "But no, I can't picture it. So you've really never been to school?"
"No. I was taught by the League of Assassins. And while that was mostly martial arts and the art of weaponry, I was also educated in history, science, math and literature. The king of the world must be well rounded."
"Is that what they told you? That you would grow up to be king of the world?" scoffed Tim.
"For a few years, anyway," Damian answered. "But Mother never told me that I had to be a certain age to drive. If I could do it, I was allowed to."
"I can see where comprehending the normal rules of the world might come as a bit of a challenge to you," said Tim. "Uh, do you want me to drop you off at home, or…?"
"I don't know. What do you want to do?" Damian said with a shrug.
"Want to get something to eat?"
"What're you in the mood for? Sandwiches? Pizza? Burgers?" asked Tim, turning to head down a busy street with many restaurants on it.
"Sandwiches, I guess," said Damian.
"OK. Do you like Subway?" asked Tim.
"Never had it. I don't really eat fast food, Drake."
"Well, Subway is at least good for you. Not like McDonalds or Burger King or any of that shit," Tim explained.
"I suppose I could choke it down, if that's what you want," said Damian. Tim chuckled.
"I guess this could count as a milestone, eh? Eating your first Subway sandwich."
"If you try to take a picture, I'll kill you in your sleep," grumbled Damian.
"Fair enough, kid. Let's eat."
Tim and Damian ordered their sandwiches. Damian was pleasantly surprised that he could get whatever he wanted on his. He ordered salami with lettuce, tomato, onion, green pepper and pickles, on wheat bread. Tim had turkey with lettuce, tomato, onion, green pepper, pickles, pepper rings, oil and vinegar and oregano on wheat, which disgusted Damian.
"Bleechh!" commented the child as the two went to get their fountain drinks. "How can you eat something that's drenched in oil like that?"
"Do you actually want the answer, or are you just asking because you want to criticize me?" asked Tim, getting a Coke. Damian rolled his eyes. He stood up on his tip-toes to try to reach the fountain, but he couldn't. Tim chuckled, and then took his little brother's cup from him and filled it with ice. "What do you want?"
"Sprite," said Damian. Tim filled the cup, put a lid on it and poked a straw through the top, and handed it back to Damian. "Thanks."
"How tall are you?" asked Tim as they sat down at a table.
"4 foot 3," said Damian, taking a bite of his sandwich. (A/N: I just guessed. I didn't get that from any website.)
"I believe it," muttered Tim, not sure of what else he could say to that. Suddenly, the melody of "Enter Sandman" erupted from where they were sitting. "…the hell?"
"It's my phone," said Damian. "Father?" he answered.
"Damian, what's this I heard about you being in jail?"
"I'm out, now, Father," said Damian. "Drake sprang me."
"And where are you now?"
"At Subway," said Damian. "I'll have Drake bring me home right after, OK?"
"See that you do. I'm not happy about this, Damian. You and I are going to have a serious talk when I get home tonight."
"Yes, Father," said Damian.
"Alright. I'll talk to you later."
"Is he pissed?" asked Tim.
"More or less," said Damian. "What do you think he's going to do?" Tim shrugged at the question.
"I don't know, man. I never exactly got grounded by him before."
"Did you make a lot of mistakes when you were Rob-?" Damian quickly stifled himself when he remembered that they were in public. "…when you started out?"
"Of course," said Tim. "The first time Dick took me out training, I totally wasn't paying attention. I was pretty embarrassed." Damian smiled at this, happy to discover that he wasn't the first Robin to screw up every now and then. "How's your sandwich?"
"It's good," said Damian. "Thanks."
"Um…" Tim started. He wasn't exactly sure how to ask this, but he had already begun, and he knew that if he said "never mind" Damian probably wouldn't let it go. "Do you, like, have any friends your own age?"
"Yes," said Damian. "One."
"Yeah? Who is it?"
"He's an orphan named Colin. He and I met while I was…heh…ironically enough, out of uniform and had just ridden my motorcycle down by the river."
"Oh yeah? What was he doing down there?" asked Tim, bunching up his sandwich paper and getting up to chuck it in the garbage.
"Same as me. We were looking for clues," said Damian, following Tim to the trash can and then walking out the door.
"Clues about what?"
"Some other kids who had been murdered and then dumped into the river," said Damian as they got back into Tim's car.
"Does he know you're Robin?"
"Actually, yes. He figured it out like ten seconds after we met. I was fighting some criminals, and I guess my moves were a little obvious."
"I had that problem- well, almost had that problem- once when I was in a movie theatre," said Tim. "This douche spilled his drink on me, and I wanted to beat the crap out of him, but I couldn't, 'cause I was out of costume."
"So what'd you do?"
"I met up with him later in a subway tunnel. No witnesses. Knocked him out," Tim said with pride. Damian grinned.
"Yeah!" he laughed. Unaware of what the other was thinking, somehow the two brothers managed to raise their hands at the exact same time, and high-5 each other. After a moment of awkward silence, Damian asked
"What does douche mean?"
Tim blushed. "Oh, jeez…" he sighed. "It's a…like a…bag of like, soap. That, um, women like, squirt up in themselves…to like, clean out their…y'know…area." Damian's eyes widened and his face scrunched up in disgust.
"I know," said Tim.
"Yes, yes it is. That's why it makes for a good insult," said Tim. "Heh heh…"
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" laughed the ten-year-old.
"Ha ha ha!" laughed Tim. "Anymore questions?"
"No," laughed Damian.
"Good. Let's go home."
Please review, thanks.